Christina enters a barber’s shop, because she has seen the ideal gift:
She moistened her lips, and, in a tremulous whisper, said—
“I want a—a potion.”
“A lotion, miss?”
“A potion.”
“A lotion—for the hair?” He smiled dreadfully—so it seemed to Christina. Once more she all but fled.
Christina had been reading about potions, in a periodical devoted to love stories. She tells her aunt, Miss Purvis, about it. “It was a magic potion. A lass got it frae a—a sosserer to gi’e to a young man that wasna heedin’ aboot her. She gi’ed it to him, an’ it charmed him, an’ afore she could say ‘Jack Robinson’ he was coortin’ her like fun, an’ their nuptails was celebrated in—”
Now Christina is ready to employ the same means in behalf of her aunt.
To the barber, then, Christina whispers: “A potion. What—what’s the price o’ yer—yer Spirit o’ Love?”
The barber, momentarily nonplussed, finally smiled with understanding: